


Sul'da'eraen

by AnonymousInquisitor



Series: To Sing [2]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Ancient Arlathan, Ancient Elvhenan, Angst, Drabble Collection, Eventual Fluff, Eventual Smut, F/M, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Fluff and Smut, Sexual Content, Spoilers
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-01-22
Updated: 2015-10-17
Packaged: 2018-03-08 15:04:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 5,274
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3213554
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AnonymousInquisitor/pseuds/AnonymousInquisitor
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This is a collection of drabbles related to Sulena Nadas'din that don't quite fit into the flow of the story. These are entirely optional reads, and may just be me indulging in some fluff or whatever comes.</p><p>It does contain spoilers Dragon Age: Inquisition.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Night Terrors

**Author's Note:**

> Title roughly should translate to Song of Short Stories/Tales/Dreams

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, this drabble actually ended up running away with me... It's MUCH LONGER than chapter 5 of Sulena Nadas'din. My goodness... I won't allow the other drabbles to become so long! (I hope)
> 
> This is, as promised, Fen'harel's POV from that chapter.

It was rare that Fen’harel was ever caught by surprise, and this past seven day had been full of such surprises. A curious woman who bore his magic, carried his scent and was once Mythal’s creature had appeared before him, out of nowhere. He had begun to avoid her after Mythal had granted her freedom, after she had saved the boy she had named blessing. Avoided her because she, in herself, was something he didn’t understand. She was unlike many in the fact that she had risked herself for the sake of another. He had thought her a clever ploy, a trap meant to draw his attention but no such trap, no matter how clever, would have risked herself for another.

And he had found himself _concerned_ that she had placed herself in danger. 

Fen’allan was a mystery, someone who claimed to know nothing but she seemed to know everything. Mythal’s gift was one consideration, but it was too simple and couldn’t explain everything. So, he observed her when he could. He saw her take Sul’assan under her wing, and her saw the girl who was once June’s open up in a way she had never done in all her years in the Temple. He saw Fen’allan adopt the boy she had rescued, a boy who did not speak a single word to her but that had not deterred her.

She was kind to all of those whom she had interacted with, welcoming and gentle. Only kind words had been spoken about her. 

And then, he observed when she took to spending time alone in the quiet of the library. He had thought her after his work, his plans, but she never strayed to where he had planted them in obvious view, feigning a careless nature. Instead, her focus had been upon the books that lined the shelves. She found books on theories of time. It was an endeavor that he could find no meaning behind. And when she read the words from the pages, he saw the way she struggled to read, the way her eyes strained, the way she pinched the bridge of her nose to ward off a headache.

Slaves often struggled to read when they taught themselves, the letters they knew formed words with those that they did not and the words were drawn from context alone. He wonderedwhethere or not she had been freed. Or, had she been freed at the cost of being bound to him? 

She haunted his sleep with questions of her existence. Questions of why. Questions of how.

It was rare that Fen’harel was surprised.

She had found his room on the seventh day. She had crawled into his bed without a word. He had been so lost in his thoughts that he had not been aware of her until she pressed herself into him and burned him like untamed fire. He became aware of her, forehead pressed into his bare chest. He became aware of her tears and mumbling in a tongue that made no sense to him. His heart clenched with guilt. An easy target had been found in her, her room had not been warded properly. He had neglected the task, unintentionally. 

“Fen’allan…” He whispered, gently, in an attempt to coax her from her terror. She did not respond.

She babbled further, the words were harsh with no flow or rhythm in the way they rolled from her tongue. He understood, instead, the sorrow and her suffering laced in the tone of her voice. This was his fault. He curled his arms around her and drew her close. She was drenched in sweat.

“Shh.” He soothed, “I will send them away.” His lips pressed against the crown of her head while he weaved a spell to surround her, to block her from the Dreamer’s wandering minds, who sought only to harm.

She relaxed in an instant, soothed by him. 

“Thank you, Solas.” No. She was soothed by the memory of a slave called Pride. He couldn’t help the way he tensed against her, couldn’t help the feeling that came from the knowledge that she was not as plagued by him as he of she. 

Jealousy was such an ugly feeling, better put to other uses than anger. Though, he wanted his name upon her lips in some prideful part of himself.

Instead of acting, he ran his fingers through her hair and she relaxed further. Sleep came for her once more, but this time, it was quiet and peaceful. He kept his hands busy in the locks of her hair, combing in a rhythm that he lost himself in. He didn’t know how long he had lost himself in the gentle rhythm, and wondered how long he could keep her. How he could convince her to answer his questions. Mythal said not to press her further, not to ask what he should not know as if that were answer enough.  

“Solas…” She spoke again, the cry on her lips soft with longing, but not desperate.

He freed himself of her arms, the sweat that soaked her clothes had grown cold and uncomfortable for him and likely for her, even in her sleeping state. The prospect of her catching ill -- as mortals do --from cold and wet clothing did not appeal to him. She did not stir from the absence of him, and he drew the covers of his bedding to rest over her before he departed.

He stepped into the small chamber attached to his room, a luxurious room meant for his bathing alone. He filled a small basin in the room with water and gathered a rag before he again returned to her side. He was not a fan of the scent of terror that clung to her, the scent of her tears that had filled the air. They clung to her, like the illness that would follow if he neglected this, too.

Fen’harel was careful in extracting the wet clothing, easier to do with the robes she wore. They were meant for coverage only, not for sleep as she used them. He discarded them off to the side with little care. He dipped the rag in the water and warmed it with his hand before her wrung it out and soothed over her feverish skin.

The name that left her lips like a prayer was not his.

He wondered on the one called pride, wondered why she desired him so greatly that she called for him in her sleep. 

When she was clean and the fever tamed, he wrapped her securely in the blankets before he, too, attempted to return to the sleep that was so elusive to him.

Yet, he could not rest with her at his side. He could not slip into the Fade with her distracting him so thoroughly, adding more questions to his already growing list. And by the time that he had even begun to relax into a restful state, the first signs of light peeked in from the window and taunted him with the knowledge that he would not sleep this day.

And, rather than fight against what he knew was to come, he relented and drew himself from the bed again. Fen’allan did not stir, still sound asleep in the warmth of his bed. He wrapped his waist with a fur covering and departed the room, the door closed soundlessly behind him.

Har’enaste met him in the hall, as per usual, following his steps towards the kitchens.

“Bel’mae says that Enansal is fitting in well. He is learning at an advanced rate, compared to his peers. I suggest a higher level of learning for him, and he wishes to learn more advanced skills. He has made his intentions clear that he wishes to become Fen’allan’s guard.” Har’enaste spoke, though his voice held a hint of distress that was thinly veiled in enthusiasm.

“If that’s what he wants, I see no need to restrict him. Let him learn. But, something troubles you, my friend. What is causing you concern?”

Har’enaste hesitated and fell behind him for a beat, before he quickly resumed pace at Fen’harel’s side.

“Fen’allan has gone missing. Sul’assan had said she was doing as you had asked this morning and found her missing from his room.”

Fen’harel could not help the laugh that escaped, free and unrestrained. He came to a stop and turned to face the man. 

“Is that all? Where is Sul’assan now?” 

“In the kitchen, preparing breakfast. I assured her we would find Fen’allan. Why are you laughing?”  

“She’s asleep in my den. Worry not. I will see that Sul’assan is assured that Fen’allan is safe. See that everything is prepared for today? Have the others agreed?” 

“Yes, Ati’asha says she will assist, but in her own way.”

“As expected. Then, I would like a report when you finish?”

“Of course.” Har’enaste promised before he bowed and departed from the hall, set to tend to the task he had been asked to attend to.

Fen’harel entered the kitchens once the man was out of sight. The kitchen staff bustled with life, preparing the first meal for those who called the Temple sanctuary. Many families called these halls home, each worked in different jobs, eager to contribute to the community in tasks they felt they were suited to, rather than roles designated to them by another. 

Sul’assan was easy to spot amongst those who worked in the kitchens regularly. She was the only downtrodden one of those who were bustling with excitement for the day. He passed by the workers who spoke soft greetings or bowed their good mornings instead, until he came to stand beside the girl who chopped fruits, cheeses, and meats into delicately shaped cubes. She did not notice his presence by her side.

“Worry not, arrow singer. Your mistress is only resting in my den. Is this for her?” He asked, a gesture to the tray she worked with, the pieces piled on so delicately.

The girl startled at his voice and she dropped the piece of fruit she had intended to add to the tray. Her cheeks colored with a sudden embarrassment and a sheepish little smile settled into place. 

“I had worried, master Fen’harel. I’m glad she is safe. She is… Not troubling you? I know that she had… Well, she is unaware of many things, but you can’t be angry with her. She is so young!”

“I’m not, Sul’assan,” he assured with a chuckle, “and I will send her back after she has eaten.”

“Thank you!” She bowed her head once before she passed the tray into his care.

Fen’harel smiled at how lively and protective the girl was of the one she had deemed as her charge. He nodded his thanks before he departed from the kitchens before he could be shooed out for getting in the way. He passed through the empty halls that lead back to his room, halls that were only full of life when they were being cleaned or when a guest graced one of the rooms. Though, such visitors were a rare occurrence these days. He approached the door of his chambers, settled the tray firmly in one hand before he pushed the silent door open. 

Fen’allan stood at the wall, before one of his murals, fingers traced the figure of white with such a gentle care. It was tender, with a reverence that he could only wonder if she _knew_. His heart swelled in the oddest sort of fondness for that small gesture, for the care that she showed. And the questions grew.

“You’re awake.” Lamely, his words had failed him and he could find nothing else to say.

She turned to face him as he stepped further in, and the door shut behind him without a sound. She could not hide the hint of sorrow, nor the faint touches of love within the depths of her eyes as she looked upon him. He approached the bed, her eyes burned upon him, intent while he settled himself and the tray. He looked up to meet her gaze and found a mask had now settled upon her features in attempt to hide what he had already seen. 

He gestured for her to join him on the bed. 

“I didn’t meant to intrude.” So polite, his Fen’allan, though her gaze darted towards the door like a cornered animal about to flee from the hunter.

And wolves were the best of the hunters.

“Then, join me and it won’t have been intruding.” He laid the trap before her. His lips lifted upwards in a smile unbidden, an easy and natural smile.

She hesitated as if she had sensed his trap, but her path did not lead her to the door. Instead, she settled down across from him. His prey was now settled in his trap, though he could not spring it quite yet, lest he lose her entirely. His desire to ask his questions burned intensely, but he let it simmer, the questions unspoken on the tip of his tongue. 

He closed the distance between them, the tray serving as a barrier.

“It is hardly a surprise that you would have trouble against those who haunted you. I apologize.” He regretted his negligence, though, she fared without trouble now. Weaker spirits would have crumbled faster, been subject to their terrors for days before they recovered. She displayed no such symptoms. 

“If you still feel regret for your intrusion, please allow me to indulge?” It was hardly a question, however, as his fingers already took a finely cut piece of fruit from the tray. He lifted it to her lips, not quite making contact. 

“I can feed myself.” She insisted.

“Indulge me, Fen’allan.” He did not plead, nor did he beg. She wavered under his gaze, “after all, sleep eluded me once you had invaded my bed, burning hotter than fire…”

She did not cave to his whims so easily, and in retaliation, he teased the fruit along her bottom lip. He did not relent and saw her resolve begin to crack, either from hunger or desire. She was, indeed, a curious creature. Her cheeks colored pink, her embarrassment was endearing.

“Just once,” she said as her resolve crumbled entirely before him, and her mouth opened to accept his offering.

He grinned as he brushed the fruit past her lips, though she was careful not to make contact with him and he was determined to see how much he could pull from her with her guard lowered, with her thoroughly distracted by _him._  

“Who is this Solas you call for in your sleep?” He asked and her teeth bit into him, instead. His grin remained fixated in place, and he did not extract his fingers until she had the fruit securely in her mouth. 

Now, the tips of her ears were colored a lovely shade of red, but that did little to gain his answer. He gestured for her to speak, to answer, but she refused. Instead, she reached for a piece of meath. His hand caught her defiant one and held fast, his eyes sought hers and they clashed.

“Tell me.”

He drew her closer, mindful of the tray as he did.

“No one. Pride does not exist.” Liar. Why would she call for someone who did not exist? Her gaze was defiant, determined to battle her will against his. “Why didn’t you have your slaves bring your meal if you were hungry?”

The question was like a slap in the face. He faltered, his gaze narrowed upon her. She knew what they once were, but not what they were now. None would have called themselves such in the Temple. Her conclusion was impulsive, without thought or consideration to her surroundings. She continued to show knowledge, though misplaced. She pulled her hand free from his, grabbed the meat that she had intended to take and put it into her mouth.

“They are not slaves.” He spoke, finally.

“They wear your vallaslin.”

He grit his teeth at the stubbornness of her, her use of knowledge without truly considering the situation of the Temple. 

“Yes,” he relented on that point, “and they have done so willingly, lest they wish to cast their lives away.” He challenged her to argue with him on this, to argue on things she did not truly understand. She remained silent and he continued.

“Those whom were given as gifts cannot be turned away so easily, either. To refuse would be their death.”

She remained silent, her guard lowered yet again and another question that lingered on the tip of his tongue slipped out.

“Were you as slave?” As nonchalant as he could manage, a smile settled in place.

“What? No!” Her answer came quickly, her tone distressed. “I’ve never been a slave.” 

She realized her slip and attempt to calm herself into a neutral expression. The damage was already done, however, and he was questioning her once again. So many small pieces and none of them fit together as they should when he tried to figure her out. She became a larger mystery with the more time he invested in her.

“Curious… You can read, yet you struggle. When you speak, there’s a hesitation before you do. It happens less and less, but when you were first brought upon me… You didn’t know how, yet you can.”

“When did--“

“I can teach you.” He stopped her from speaking, impulsive his decision to make the offer yet determined to catch her before she could refuse, before she could ask when he had made such observations.

“I would appreciate it.” And she replied with a certainty he had not expected, an eagerness that was genuine and excited. She did not shy away nor did she hide from this, though hesitation did still linger. He wondered what he had done to earn such conflicting responses in one moment.

He was pleased, regardless, and smiled his pleasure. They twisted into a grin as he leaned in closer, his hand reached for a piece of fruit as he moved. She carried his scent again, stronger with the night she had spent in his bed. Selfishly, he wanted her to think of him because she still haunted him, because she gave him more to question. The fruit was teased along her bottom lip once again.

He watched her hesitate. And then he saw her fall, eyes closed while her mouth opened and accepted his offering. 

He desired to feel her lips. He didn’t draw his hand away, instead, he teased his fingers along them. It shattered whatever peace she had, as her eyes opened to watch him. He leaned in closer, his lips would replace his fingers.

“We can’t.” She whispered but she did not push him away.

“Indulge me, ma da’sa.” But he did not steal a touch of her lips with his, instead, he reached between them and drew a piece of cheese from the pile and offered it to her. “What are you? Why are you Elvhen, yet… You are not? You are so much, but you know so little. You look upon me with hate in one moment and sorrow the next.” 

She struggled, the war evident in her eyes. She turned from his offering and pulled back, increasing the distance between them once again.

“I can’t.” The sorrow in her voice had cut him deep. He would not let her see. “I know nothing.”  

She rose from the bed and away from him, she looked upon him and her eyes spoke in volumes that she did not know.

“Your eyes say otherwise.” He insisted. “You carried my scent and yet we had never met. You are marked by my magic.”

“You are stubborn, _hahren_.” Her voice grew distant as she attempted to place more space between them with words alone. “You will figure it out.”

“So I’ve been told.” But, he could press her no further unless he wanted to drive his prey further away with no ability to gain answers in the future. He would let her run.

He followed her from the bed, and she watched with a wary gaze. He, instead, turned from her and gathered a robe that he had placed out for himself, a simple cover that was meant for only that. He placed it upon her shoulders, instead, wrapping her with the fabric before he tied it neatly in place. Once finished, he stepped away from herto where she stood between him and the door, free to go. The choice was hers.

He saw it in her eyes, first, the decision to leave before she fled.

He could not follow her with his eyes once the door had shut behind her. Questions hounded him after her departure. He desired many things, and now he wondered what, exactly, he desired from her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some notes:
> 
> Ati'asha = Woman of Peace. We will meet her soon!
> 
> Bel'mae = Mother of Many - 'bel' with a fragmented version of mamae. Bel being many, and mamae is mother. Thus, her name was created. I'm not sure when we'll see her, yet. But, I hope to introduce her soon.
> 
> This was a lot more free form and less formal than the way I type out Sulena's chapters.
> 
> I hope you enjoyed!


	2. What She Saw

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A drabble of Sul'assan's point of view in Chapter 11.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some added information for Chapter 11 of Sulena Nadas'din. Not reading this will not impact the story or your understanding of it. It's just a little tidbit that floated around in my head awhile back that came to mesh with the chapter.
> 
> I think I can do this drabble thing!

Sul’assan saw the way she watched him when he passed by without looking.

Sul’assan saw the way her mistress smiled when he laughed, before.

Sul’ssan saw him do the same, when he did more than look with passing.

Yet, Fen’allan had never drawn him close when she could, never called him sweet things that were not his name. He spurned her now, when she looked to him.

And yet he would take lovers while calling for her. He would whisper her name in the halls.

Her mistress thought herself unworthy and had lost him, in some manner, as he never approached her after their return.

Sul’assan held her tongue. She saw the pain in her mistress’ eyes.

She would not tell her what she saw.


	3. What Cannot Be Said

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This came as a prompt on tumblr: Wanting to see more of Enansal, something with him and Ellana. Maybe parent/child bonding?
> 
> Thank you so much to humanbiotic for the prompt! I really enjoyed filling it. This takes place around Chapter 11.
> 
> Have a prompt idea? Feel free to send me an ask on tumblr (anonymous is open) or reply to the post about prompts. You can find me on tumblr at: http://anonymous-inquisitor.tumblr.com/
> 
> I hope you all enjoy!

Enansal asks to have his lessons delayed when Fen’allan returns to the temple in her state, poisoned by something but no one can say what. Bel’dare is kind enough, or has enough pity, to grant his request for three days. Three days at her side and no more. He is told that as her protector, he must be vigilant and not allow himself to fret should she come to face danger even under his care. 

For now, however, he gives in to his desire to stay at her side, to push back the worry that filled his mouth like bile. 

He wants to speak, to convey his worries over her well-being but cannot break the ritual. He is strong.

Except for now, where Fen’allan has tucked him into her side and has wrapped her arms so gently around him. Except for now, when his face is pressed gently into her side, his nose tucked against her as he hides from the world and into the knowledge that she is safe.

Her fingers brush along his hair, stroking, lovingly. She whispers reassurance that she is fine, and he nods his acknowledgement while arms tighten around her frame.

She is warm. 

Her scent is familiar and he remembers.

Remembers of the woman who once held him the same. Remembers of the woman who gave him his first name.

The woman who wrapped him in her love.

Wrapped him in her arms.

Mother.

This time, he would keep _her_ safe. If no one else.


	4. Tangled Fingers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fen'harel ponders the oddity and differences of the one he named Fen'allan.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another tumblr prompt. This one is from bakabecca8. Thank you so much for this prompt!
> 
> Ellana’s hair is cut shorter on one side, so maybe a prompt of Fen’harel thinking of running his hands through it because it’s one of the more uncommon styles? Mainly a prompt contemplating how odd/different she is?

She slept beside him and Fen’harel watched with unabated curiosity. She had sought him out when he had expected her to remain distant, she had waited in his bed for the opportunity to talk and he could only be drawn in further by how direct she could be at times, while simultaneously avoiding giving answers when he asked.

He had expected her to slip back into the Fade when he was not there to bind her with his thoughts, his ideals. Part of him wondered if she could even slip her form into the Fade any longer, with the effects of his magic lingering upon her flesh.

She rolled away from him, though her hand held to his, an anchor between them.

Fen’harel wondered if she had been pulled from her place with the magic he had experimented with, the proof shown as her once having been bound to Mythal while wearing his magic. Such possibility had not crossed his mind, the first time.

He could only think  of a trap.

And now he found his heart slowly being taken by this spirit beside him. He was taken in by her curiosity, her determination, her strength, and her compassion. All of his sentinels who interacted with her had expressed their fondness for her. The residents of the temple all adored him. And adored the boy she had brought to reside within their halls.

She moved into him again, her arm draped across him while her nose tucked into him and she breathed deep as she slept. Restless. But, not expected. 

It was strange that a spirit would sleep and return to the Fade. He could only assume it would be unnerving to experience it as dreamers do.

His fingers traced along the shell of her ear, smaller than the average elvhen woman, along the shortly cropped hair along the side of her head, fascinated that a spirit would manifest with such a unique style. The hair could symbolize many things; power, wealth, status, devotion. Yet, her hair spoke not of devotion, nor wealth, nor status. She did not wear her hair as if to express these things, but wore it simply as hair.

It was interesting that she knew so much while knowing so little. A curious spirit, indeed. And different from all he had met.

He could only assume that he had bound her and made her more mortal, and she didn’t know such a fate had been placed upon her.

His fingers teased along the lone of hair, short and long. The shorter ends had began to grow, longer than her first arrival. She sighed into the touch along her scalp and he indulged by gently massaging the skin beneath his fingertips.

Fen’allan stirred, her head tilted to greet him, eyes hazy and half-lidded as she blinked at him. Her smile, though sleepy, was filled with an affection. Filled with a love that he had been uncertain how he had earned. He leaned in, his lips to her forehead. He whispered a soft greeting, and her lips brushed along his chin before her eyes closed again.

He did not wake her further, thoughts lingered on the color of her eyes, instead. They were a mixture of colors, blues and violets that danced together in her irises in a manner similar to an aurora. They contrasted against her darker skin, shining brilliantly when determined or excited.

They held such an array of emotion, contained or unrestrained. And there were times where they would stare past him, filled with sorrow as if she could see into his future and had only seen sorrow. 

Those occasions started to come less and less. Instead, like her smiles, they held a love unlike any he had ever known.

She was so different, so unique. She was a rare and beautiful spirit. 

He was falling in love.


	5. Mistakes

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tumblr Prompt: Through some sort of magical means, Fen'harel ends up witnessing a flashback of the final moments of confrontation between Ellana and Corypheus at Haven, when she causes the avalanche. His reaction.
> 
> This is based shortly after chapter 17 in Sulena Nadas'din. <3
> 
> Thanks to Kreebby for the prompt!
> 
> And thank you for reading!

Fen’harel stood amongst flame and snow; the land burned but he felt no heat from the flames, nor did he feel the cold of the snow upon his feet. 

He heard the sound of voices, speaking words he did not understand. Clipped and crude, the language was harsh upon his ears. Except for one voice that was familiar to him. Ellana, his Fen’allan, spoke the harsh tongue fluidly. Her voice held anger, something he could distinguish without understanding.

He turned to find the scene and saw a blighted creature descend upon her, lifting her by the arm that held the mark of his magic. It flared angrily, wild, without control and the creature spoke, spinning a long tale to the woman who glared defiantly at it. 

Fen’harel moved to respond, but found himself locked into place within this dream of his. He opened his mouth to speak, but had no voice to call out with. Trapped within his own dream. This was not normal. 

He could only watch as she was thrown with little effort into the trebuchet.

She hit it with a cry. Yet, she did not stay down. Her tiny hands grasped for a sword that lay before her. The creature spoke in that harsh tongue, but she stared off into the distance, watching something that he could not turn and see.

She smiled as her gaze turned back, glancing past him, unseeing, to the creature that threatened her. She spoke, smug, proud, confident. Her grin reminded Fen’harel of himself.

She kicked the trebuchet’s handle, and sent the rock flying. She watched until he heard the sound of impact. She began to run as the creature fled -- a dragon at its beck and call.

Fen’harel did not watch the creature beyond that, his gaze sought the fleeing woman. 

He saw her crushed beneath the snow. 

He saw her die. 

This was no dream.  

He woke with a start, and found her sleeping beside him. He watched her breathe, and comforted himself in that. 

This had never been his intention with that spell. He had not meant to delve into a memory not willingly shared. 

He lay awake, wondering where this woman had come from, to have such a memory. How was she marked with his magic, if it was not the result of magic he had cast the day of her arrival?

She was a mystery.

One that he would solve.


	6. Fool Me Once

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Based on the prompt: Ellana x Elvarel "How did you know how to do that?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for the prompt, Kreebby! :D 
> 
> Thank you all for reading. <3
> 
> You can send me prompts on tumblr at: anonymous-inquisitor.tumblr.com!

They stepped out into the courtyard as the sun breached the horizon, and the world began to wake with the dawning of a new day. Many of the Temples residents had yet to rise; a perfect time to spar without an audience, to be free of watchful eyes.

Ellana was thankful for the earlier session.

Elvarel turned to her, gaze expectant, the corners of her lips pulled upwards in the slightest of smiles. She inclined her head, saying little before she crossed further into the courtyard, away from her. The sentinel drew her sword and Ellana called her own, weaving the energies of the Fade into a tangible blade.

She grasped it tightly, giving it solid form. 

They bowed.

“You will be on the offensive today, Fen’allan. Take me down. Do not hold back, do not fear injury.”

Ellana nodded, and Elvarel acknowledged.

“Begin.” 

She stepped forward, one foot only. The sentinel braced, her blade lifted in defense. She took another step, her feet cool upon the ground. She did not rush forward, did not think before she struck. She looked for weakness when she knew there would be little opening.

She had never shown all of what she knew. 

It was simple to feel the pull of the Fade with no Veil. The magic came easier and pulled her forward with her third step. She passed through the sentinel, and arrived at her destination behind her.

She placed the tip of her sword at Elvarel’s back with a grin.

“I believe I win.” 

The sentinel turned once she released the blade back into the Fade, her expression bewildered, the mask she had worn moments ago was once again shattered. 

“How did you know how to do that? Your training with Bel’dare hasn’t come that far.” 

“Ah… Well, it was simple? I felt a pull and gave into it?” A lie, again. There was a hint of truth in the fact that there had been a pull, but it would not have been so simple as she had stated. 

It had taken her ages to master it before.

This time, Elvarel wore skepticism. “Did Bel’dare put you up to this?” 

“What? No, he didn’t.”

“You are too kind, Fen’allan. I will be having _words_ with him.”  


End file.
